


Let Me Out

by Melkwhore



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Blood, Blood and Injury, Gwaith is a gang now, Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Homophobic Language, M/M, No Beta, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 09:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30003069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melkwhore/pseuds/Melkwhore
Summary: Silvergifting High School AU. Celebrimbor has a secret to keep, and unfortunately secrecy comes at a cost.
Relationships: Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar
Kudos: 7





	Let Me Out

“Where is he?”  
“He should be here by now.”  
“I have to be home soon…” 

“Fuck. Artanis is going to kill us.” 

\---

The final bell rang almost twenty minutes ago, meaning all buses had left and everyone present would be walking home, evidently. The rest of the Gwaith was present, all having arranged to meet their leader in the third floor men’s room as soon as classes got out. All, of course, except that leader. Telperinquiar was never late to anything, especially nothing as important as this meeting; but this day was already one of shattered expectations. Anything could happen. 

Yalmo stood by the door, a stern and powerful presence intended to deter any entrants to the rarely-used lavatory. He was a towering six-foot-six elf clad in a too-tight navy shirt and the most average jeans imaginable fitted to his narrow waist with a black belt. He had come from a line of leathersmiths, as signified by the beautifully ornate leather band tied around his bulging bicep. Like everything his father made, the band and belt were both stamped with the family seal. Unlike the other items, however, Yalmo had complimented the color and texture of the strap with bright, silver ornaments that would have drawn criticism if it had not been attached to one of the most fearsome elves in the student body. 

Láminano had pulled himself up to sit on the filthy counter between two of the sinks, only one of which worked and neither of which had hand soap. His legs swung impatiently, kicking one foot out, then the other, in an attempt to keep his mind engaged while he waited. Lámi was not known to be the most patient member of the gang, but for Telpe, he would be. Had to be. His job would be to catch their prey if it tried to run, as it always was. If Yalmo was the muscle of the operation, Lámi was the legs. 

And Maxon, the third member of the group, was the mouth. When it came time to explain their activities to administrators, instructors, or parents, his task was to articulate exactly why they were not guilty of anything suspicious and to communicate the innocence of everyone present. Telpe would usually take care of that task when he was able, but especially in times like this, where their leader would likely leave the restroom with bloodied knuckles, it would be necessary for the smallest and keenest member to either take the lead and defend the others or to take the hit and spend a week in suspension. His father would be more merciful than the others, especially Curufinwë. 

Just as Yalmo began to become visibly agitated, tensing and relaxing his arms as they remained crossed over his broad chest in an attempt to distract his mind from his impatience, the restroom door swung open. Telpe strode in, his near-black hair looking uncharacteristically mussed and unorganized as it hung straight to the middle of his back. He immediately moved to the sinks and washed--rinsed--his hands before smoothing his hair back into order and beginning to arrange it into a braid. As was typical with young Noldor, each member of the Gwaith wore their hair loose and straight in a cascade down their backs, often adorned with little silver or gold rings based on how the individual family represented itself. Like his father, Telpe often kept a silver circlet around the crown of his head, but it was too risky to leave it on for this task. Reverently, he removed it and held it between his hands, contemplating the impending task before handing it to Yalmo for safe keeping. No one would be able to reach the circlet at such a height, if they would even be able to get past the boy’s trunk-like reach. 

\---

“Where have you been, T?” Maxon stood from the place he had been seated in the windowsill of the far wall. One knee remained cold from the temperature of the glass leading to the outside on that chilly winter afternoon. Snow rarely fell in Eregion, as the skies were often too clear to allow for any clouds. Clear skies did not, however, mean warm weather. It often meant exactly the opposite: plenty of room for wind and chill to race through the air.

Telpe shook his head and secured his braid. “Yeah, sorry. I had to deal with something.” As leader of the gang, Telperinquar was the center of the operation. He wore a simple tunic-shirt and some well-made jeans, as well as a pair of black leather boots that his father had given him. He had initially been teased for the _click-click_ sound they made as he navigated the stone floors of the Ost-in-Edhil halls, but that was short lived. That was one benefit of their gang, after all; immunity and power. 

The boys had gathered together in their first year together, originally dedicated to honing their crafts and creating beautiful metalwork together. This little group of Noldor was destined to become great craftsmen, but their formal tutelage had not been enough to fulfill their muse. The boys grew and experimented together, and they would come to be the most skilled craftsmen of their community; possibly the best in all of Arda. For now, though, their attentions went to working together after school and on weekends, as well as banding together to form a formidable four-man gang that had significant influence over the student body. Some weaker-willed faculty even respected their authority as the four grew older and stronger, although the threat to adults was never explicitly made.

Telpe turned to face his peers and placed his broad hands on his hips. Though not as built as Yalmo or as fast as Láminano, their leader was a force in his own right, built like an athlete with the mind of an artist and, to his benefit and detriment, the heart of a dove.

“I was held up with Artanis,” he sighed, though this was clearly a lie. He and Artanis had nearly broken up that afternoon and did not intend to see each other for the duration of the day, possibly even the weekend. “Where is he? Shouldn’t he be here?” 

Maxon slid from the counter and checked his watch, another item hand-crafted in Noldorin tradition. “We told him three-thirty. You think he pussied out?” The other two boys snickered at the idea, but Telpe shook his head. 

“If he did...that’s a forfeit.” It took great effort for their leader to keep his face focused and neutral instead of apprehensive. “But I prefer a real victory to a win by default.” 

_Good_ , he thought, his internal voice speaking as urgently and hopefully. _I told him to go home. Maybe this time he listen--_

Of course he didn’t. 

The door swung open again and it was immediately evident that their target had arrived. Aside from his pointed ears and elfin face, Annatar was as unlike these four Noldor as he could possibly be. Where they were olive-skinned, he was fair; where they had dark hair, his was almost white; and while even the weakest of the smiths was corded in bands of muscle earned from hours behind the forge, his body, though fit and toned, was thin and narrow. Telpe tried not to let his face visibly fall. _Shit. I told him to run._

Annatar moved almost soundlessly, face composed as though he had arrived at a church instead of at his doom. The elf gracefully hung his shoulder bag on one of the hooks on the wall to prevent it from touching the nasty bathroom floor, and he slowly, wordlessly removed the sky-blue blazer he wore over a white v-neck. The three Noldor boys jeered and prodded at him and Yalmo moved slightly to the side to block the swinging door from opening. His fate sealed, Annatar tied his stick-straight, hip-length hair into a tight bun and lifted his head to face his opponent. 

Telpe swallowed hard. Lámi and Maxon moved back to allow space for the brawl. The smith’s dark eyes pleaded with Annatar’s crystal blue ones, simultaneously in distress and in apology. The smaller boy looked so soft even now, with his thin arms exposed, his long neck gracefully stretched as his chin lifted and exposed that beautiful pulse point at the base of his jaw, and the little tender spot to the left of his windpipe. A small bruise blossomed there in a light purple shade. 

“You got a girlfriend, pretty boy?” Lámi teased, taking off the rings on his fingers in case he would be asked to participate. He always hoped he would be invited. 

Annatar shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving Telpe’s. “Nope. No girlfriend.” His jaw clenched and his adam’s apple bobbed slightly in his throat. “Didn’t you have something to discuss with me, Silver Fist?” 

Telpe glanced quickly at each of his companions, who appeared impatient with the lack of fists. “Fuckin’ hit him,” Yalmo urged, “Or I will.” That thought made Annatar’s pale face somehow go a shade lighter, but he did not respond. 

“I--” Telpe took some deep breaths and clenched his fists, hoping to convince his body to do what he had to. “I don’t believe there is any discussing to be done. Why did you write me that letter, you-” he tried not to hesitate as he spat out the word, “ _fag_?” 

The letter. No one else was supposed to find it. Annatar had written several short letters to Telpe while he was in class and passed them off when the two passed in the hallway. Many of them were innocent, as the two talked like good friends. Most letters contained something shaped like affection, and a few were explicitly flirtatious. Of course it was one of the latter that Maxon had found, dropped outside a classroom in the history wing. _Just thank Eru that it wasn’t one of the letters Telpe had written in response._

Annatar shrugged one thin shoulder, immune to the insulting name by now. Telpe was not the first to spit it at him, nor would he be the last. 

“You were never supposed to see the letter,” the fair-haired elf lied. “What I write is none of your business. None of you.” For the first time, Annatar turned his head to catch each of the other Noldor in his gaze, holding a brief but intense eye contact with each of them. “This is _none_ of your business.” 

Lámi spit messily at Annatar’s feet. “Someone else could’ve seen that shit and thought our boy was a fairy.” 

_Shit._ Telpe had been wracking his brain for a solution, for any way out, but none came up. This was really going to have to happen. 

Annatar’s eyes landed back on Telpe’s, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. He knew what had to be done. 

“Maybe your boy _is_ a fairy,” he accused. One small fist jutted outward and landed in Telpe’s tight stomach. 

The air and the soft _oof_ expelled from the leader’s stomach was more in surprise than in pain. But, this was it. There was no longer an alternative. 

Telpe felt his mind leave his body as his fist collided with the blonde elf’s body until he was far enough out of his own consciousness that he couldn’t feel the second hit, or the third, or how ever many followed. It was imperceptible. He faintly heard his friends cheering and spitting insults at Annatar, barely felt his booted foot swing forward and collide with a narrow kneecap. There was a spray of blood as Telpe felt his knuckle meet a white tooth, then with soft stomach, then with a rib. The entire ordeal lasted barely a few minutes, but he was not able to return to his consciousness until it was over. 

\---

The three other elves laughed and clapped Telpe on the back as a congratulations. His masculinity was defended, his title maintained. The craftsman washed his hands in the soapless sink, watching red blood wash down the drain from his knuckles. How much of that blood had been his, and how much was Annatar’s? He couldn’t bare to look. 

“This shit always makes me hungry.” Yalmo slung his bag over his shoulder. “You coming, T? We’re going to grab a sandwich on the way home.” 

Telpe shook his head, trying his hardest to maintain an air of arrogant composure. “Nah. I’m going to swing by Artie’s to see if I can hit it.” The sentence tasted like bile in his mouth. 

The other boys chuckled and nodded, offering high fives as they walked out of the bathroom. Telpe stood still, running his hands under the water as he listened to the three sets of footsteps receding down the hall until they disappeared. It was only then that he could bear to look at what remained of Annatar. 

The sight made his stomach drop, hot with acid and disgust in himself. Annatar lay splayed on the floor, one arm bent at an odd angle. He didn’t appear unconscious, at least, but unfortunately there was quite a bit of blood everywhere. It was now almost four, and the chances of someone coming by this remote bathroom were low. Still, Telpe blocked the door with the heavy trash bin and hurried to Annatar, where he knelt at his side.  
“I-- I’m so--” His head shook slightly as if in awe of what he had done. His own knuckles throbbed from the labor of battle, but any physical pain was drowned out by adrenaline. “Annatar. I’m so sorry.” 

The blonde elf licked his lips in an effort to free them of some of the blood coming from them. No teeth had been knocked out, but his beautiful mouth was certainly split and bloodied enough for that not to matter. Annatar’s body shook erratically with shock and effort as he tried to push himself up to a sitting position, with which Telpe helped. The larger Noldor leaned in and held Annatar’s face between his hands and cradled it as if it was something precious. 

“It’s fine,” Annatar croaked. His voice was rusted by swallowed blood and hits to the throat. There would be significant bruising there later, enough to make anyone completely forget the little love bite that had been blooming at his throat. He tried to communicate something else, but the sentiment was drowned out by a wet cough that made Annatar clutch his ribs in pain. 

“It isn’t fine. I--” Telpe was about to say he didn’t have a choice, but of course he did. He always had a choice. “I didn’t mean to drop that letter. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even get to read it before--”

Annatar let one thin, pale hand land on Telpe’s forearm to shush him. “It’s fine,” he repeated. The tone was final. “This happens.” 

Telpe searched the other’s face in search of any kind of sincere emotion, but none was visible. Annatar could be so difficult to read. A gift giver he was, of course, but he refused to give the gift of eye contact. 

The two worked together to get Annatar to his feet and found that, despite the rough kicks to the smaller elf’s knees and shins, he was able to walk well enough. Telpe tried desperately to communicate his regret in urgent and repeated apologies, but Annatar ignored them all. Instead, he shouldered the hanging bag again and grabbed his blazer, an item that would have covered the bloody spots on his previously perfect white shirt, and headed for the door. 

“Move this trash can, please, Telpe.” 

Telpe moved between Annatar and the door to try to keep him in. “Please listen. I--” 

“Telpe, _let me out._ ” 

“Annatar, I just--” 

_“Move.”_

It was then that Annatar’s eyes finally met Telpe’s again, but not with the understanding tenderness they had held earlier. Somehow, the crystalline blue of those light eyes had become clouded, and the smallest shred of betrayal snuck through the stolid persona. Instead of waiting for Telpe to move aside, Annatar weakly shoved him away from the door, then kicked over the heavy trash can so it was low enough to step over. Without another word, the blonde head, bun now loosened and messy, stepped through the threshold of the door. Back against the wall, Telpe slid to the floor as he listened to limping steps recede down the hallway, but the air left his lungs when they stopped. There was no sound from either elf for a full minute, maybe more. Telpe refused to move, like a prey animal trying not to be seen. 

But there was no predator on its way. Instead, Annatar turned around and returned to the restroom, stepping over the downed can again. He crouched, an action that the look on his face said was quite painful, and locked eyes with Telpe one more time. 

“I understand,” he breathed. The words were almost inaudible, meant only for the elf on the floor. Annatar leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Telpe’s forehead, leaving behind a little bloody imprint behind before he turned once again and left. 


End file.
